Intermittent Rage
by JackSparrowsBooty
Summary: The BAU shows up at a psychiatric hospital in Medical Lake, Washington to investigate a series of murders of psych patients. Takes place around season four.


**Present**

Despite the harsh brightness of the overhead lights, the hospital corridors still had a somewhat disturbing, shadowy quality to them. There had been drastic measures taken of late to improve the conditions of the interior—not just to appease visiting politicians and financial supporters of their increasing concerns that the 150-year-old building was showing major signs of dilapidation and that patients were still valued members of society and deserved to live in a place that was up to code, but it also seemed to have a calming and pleasing effect on staff and the residents. The floors were neatly tiled, walls painted a soothing shade of green, and renovations had improved the overall look of the place, but to the BAU agents, Morgan being the only one to vocalize his discomfort, the place was still eerie.

The patients had finally been ushered into their rooms by the slow-moving, blasé night staff, and the agents each paired off to sweep the deeply-extended hallways that seemed to stretch on for miles. To Hotch, this reminded him of classically nightmarish scenes from movies and TV shows—a dark corridor that appears to become impossibly longer when one attempts to find a way out of it. He and Emily had opted to turn down the East wing, the one that Morgan had declared as the "creepiest" area of the asylum, and Hotch had to admit that being it was the oldest part of the building, it did have a certain unsettling ambience to it.

"Prentiss," he said softly as they approached a separate area for the East wing, part of it an adjunct to the hall of rooms when the hospital had decided additional beds were necessary. Her slight form was a half-step from his side, and their eyes met. The dark eyes framed with long lashes were wide, unblinking when they flitted in his direction. She nodded to show that she understood his objective. He held up his right hand and they halted, and he then motioned toward the right with his index finger, then continued forward, weapon unsheathed and safety removed.

Robert Hughes, the 24-year-old man that the staff had brought to their attention was known to be extremely aggressive with authority, had been infamous with his violent temper, often using whatever was nearest and handy to either throw or use as a weapon. He'd been supplanted from a county correctional facility for his emotional instability, but in spite of his violent behavior, he was kept there because of his mental frailty; he had been diagnosed with a severe schizotypal personality disorder and experienced intermittent, explosive outbursts with extreme paranoia. Hotch wasn't entirely convinced that this young man was capable of crafting a plot to hoard his medication, use it to drug the young women on the other side of the hospital, and finally rape and murder them a week later. With his crippling mental problems, he doubted Hughes had the capacity to think beyond the walls within his mind. But Hotch knew that he must be found, and if he was innocent of murder, he was obviously afraid of something and they needed to find out why.

Hotch slinked down the hall and swiveled around door thresholds, nearly every room dark and vacant. Each time he shouted an affirmation of clearance, meanwhile listening for a responding "Clear!" from Emily in the other direction. He let his eyes trail around the small space before moving to the next, until he reached the last room near the caged off window, before making his way back up and sweeping the rooms on the opposite side. Just when he pushed off from the metal door, he felt a sharp pinch in his left thigh. He was momentarily distracted, and glanced down, brushing his slacks with an aggravated hand. Irritation with jamming his leg into whatever was in his way caused a wave of terror to wash down on him when his fingers ran over the unmistakable feel of a hypodermic needle protruding from the fabric of his pants. He pulled out the offending stick and stared in disbelief at the small syringe—the empty vial revealed that whatever was in it (if there had been anything in it at all, and he sure as hell hoped that was true) was now in his thigh muscle, soon to spread throughout his body. That could be essentially anything given they were in a mental hospital and the kinds of drugs there varied enormously. Even if it didn't contain anything, Hotch knew he was at risk for countless diseases, some that could be treated, some obviously incurable.

Hotch pressed his back against the window bars, swinging his service weapon left and right, searching desperately for an escaping figure, but could not see anything suspicious, though he knew someone was close enough to stab him with a needle and he needed immediate assistance. "Prentiss!" he cried, trying desperately to keep the mounting fear from sneaking into his normally level tone. "I need you!"

He prayed earnestly that the syringe was empty, but his hopes were dashed when an overwhelming dizzy sensation rushed over him. His limbs suddenly turned to rubber and his gun and the needle clattered to the ground when he lost the ability to grip them any longer. His delirious brain caught movement at his right, and he stepped forward to prevent this person from getting away, but Hotch simply collapsed to his hands and knees. "No," he protested quietly. Scrambling footsteps bounced off of the walls, noisy scrapping and a shout of surprise followed.

"Hotch!" Emily called out, but he couldn't seem to lift his gaze from the space between his hands.

"Get 'im," he slurred, fighting to control a mouth that refused to move properly. He felt a surge of anxiety that gave him a brief burst of energy and he attempted to right himself on his feet, but he knew despite his efforts, the medication was winning the battle. "Em'ly," he muttered nearly incoherent, swaying dangerously.

"Hotch, where are you hurt?" she gasped, clutching his shoulders and forcing him to look her in the eyes. The last thing he remembered was Emily's concerned gaze, just as the world spun out of control and darkened, and he collapsed straight into her arms.

Before

Medical Lake, Washington

Eastern State Hospital was sprawling, massive, and a more intimidating structure than expected. Just miles away from Interstate 90, nestled between two bodies of water—aptly named West Medical Lake and Medical Lake—was the imposing structure that seemed to rise up from the stuff of bad horror films. The place itself was solidly built and beautifully landscaped. The manicured gardens and walkways lined with trees gave the Behavioral Analysis Unit a sense of ease at first glance, until the brick-laid hospital was revealed from behind the wall of flora.

Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner wheeled the black SUV around a well-positioned fountain and came to a full stop near the gated entrance, and then hopped out of the drivers' seat, thankful to stretch his long legs after their flight over from Washington DC to the Spokane airport and finally the half-hour drive from Spokane to Medical Lake. The metropolitan in eastern Washington State, small as it was, descended from the urban cityscape into a heavily wooded mountainous area, which, he's sure, was lined with outdoors enthusiasts, campers, locals craving to go fishing and swimming in the summertime. The lakes that flanked the hospital on both sides were visually stunning, but the place itself was a looming presence.

"This place gives me the creeps," Derek Morgan commented as his gaze swung around, head leaning back to glance at the cloud-covered sky. Hotch threw him a look just as a Spokane County sheriff pulled up in his cruiser and a group of four or five doctors suitably dressed in long, white lab coats approached from the gate.

"The location is gorgeous," Emily Prentiss responded as she crawled out of the back of the SUV, followed by Spencer Reid, whose face was tired and drawn. No one had to wonder why.

He'd insisted that his presence was instrumental in solving the batch of murders that had plagued the small town for the past five months, and that his perspective was possibly the most important out of the unit because of his experiences with his mother. Section Chief Erin Strauss and Hotch had sat down with the young genius privately and told him that if he wished to sit this one out, he would be fully supported of such a decision, especially with the turmoil that surrounded his personal life and how closely such a case hit home, but he'd been uncompromising and stalwart. Hotch had been his typical stone-faced self, but he'd been smiling internally, because the young man's determination reminded him so much of himself.

"The building itself is 123-years-old and gives the impression of an imposing presence, but only beds just under 300 residents. 287 to be exact. Back in 1891 residents of Medical Lake donated the area to developers, and it has been historically lauded by the psychiatric community as one of the most visually pleasing facilities on the West Coast."

"287 beds?" Morgan said, frowning dramatically. "In a place this big, you'd think there would be enough room to fit a small army."

"You'd think," one of the men said as he stepped out of the group of lab coats. His gold-colored name tag reflected off of the available light source, even in the growing dusk. It revealed his status as the most important individual of the group of shrinks, medical director _Ph.D_. He was a short little man with a squat, round middle and a bad salt-and-pepper comb over, but a composed grin that seemed deceptively calm. "But we here at Eastern State like to pride ourselves in using every square inch of it to enrich the lives of our residents. We have plenty of areas dedicated to different interests, physical activities, and educational services." He extended a hand to Morgan, who shook it warily. To the agent, this doctor sounded like he was reading from a pamphlet, like it was a sales pitch. Who was he trying to convince here? "I'm the medical director, Frank Fisher. These are my colleagues, Drs. Michael Barnes, Paul Butler, Jennifer Perry, and Victor Gutierrez."

The four agents all politely introduced themselves, then turned when the sheriff, who'd gone entirely unnoticed, cleared his throat to grab their attention. "Oh," Fisher said in an overly-friendly manner, his bushy eyebrows climbing his forehead. "Agents, this is Sheriff Greg Jenkins. He's been heading the investigations out here."

"I'm sorry to interrupt your little introduction ceremony," the 30-something man in muted green uniform said drily. "But I got bad news."

The director's face fell dramatically, showing his first true emotion, concern. "Not another one."

Sheriff Jenkins nodded grimly. "We've got a fresh crime scene, pretty gruesome. You folks better come with me."

Hotch let his gaze wander over the other three FBI agents, who wore matching looks of weariness. They hadn't slept in 20 hours (it was after normal bedtime hours back East), and anytime there was a cross-country plane ride with ridiculous delays as a result of unfortunate storm cells they had encountered when crossing the plains states, there was a general need to decompress. They hadn't even made it to their hotel. This, however, required immediate attention. "Prentiss, have you spoken with JJ? How far behind us were they?"

Emily pulled her cell phone from her pocket and glanced at it. "I talked to her about twenty minutes ago. She said they were having trouble getting their tire replaced. The area is so small, though."

JJ Jareau and Dave Rossi had fallen behind, somehow managing to rent the only vehicle that had three rusty nails imbedded in the front tire of their SUV. The blow out had occurred driving over the many railroad tracks in the area. Fortunately they had avoided any type of injury and had been able to safely maneuver the vehicle away from any sort of danger. Rossi had insisted they move on. That had been nearly an hour ago.

Hotch sighed, and couldn't help the growing sense of foreboding clawing its way into his brain. The case was already off to a terrible start. "All right. Stay in communication with them. Keep them updated with the coordinates of the body's location, will you?"

"Follow me," Jenkins said, sliding back into his cruiser. This time, Dr. Fisher sat in the front passenger seat, and the agents boarded their SUV and trailed closely behind, the regal, looming hospital now just an eerie image in the rearview mirror.


End file.
